Your story felt like listening to cascading water, impeded by rocks and rerouted back to its origin
Literature made visceral
Can almost feel his touch
Love this headspace! Now I'm thinking is he on my bookshelf waiting?
Alone with Him
But I don't; I can't. I'm his. He possesses me. I long to stroke his cheek, kiss his lips, melt in his embraces. So there I sit on my bed -- alone with him. My nose buried in the book. I turn each page in eager anticipation. Where will he take me now? My imagination is the world we share. There he lives, he breathes.
I found him in the school library. The book is tattered. It upsets me to think of how many years he waited for me.
But we have found each other. And now that we are together, all I want is him. I find excuses to sneak off.
"I have to brush my hair...make my bed...do my homework."
Last chapter -- paragraph by paragraph, sentence by sentence, word by word -- he is slipping away. I'm killing him, us. Still, I can't stop.
The end, I close the book and run a hand tenderly over the cover. My heart calls for him. I feel him in the shadows; he visits me only in my memories. He is gone.
Desperate, I pick up my pen. Imagination fueled by longing, I write. And he returns to me.